


Hard Bargain

by ordinarily (tofty)



Series: Design-Build [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, discussion of rape/noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Even Jared has moral boundaries, and he withdraws when he realizes he's crossed them with Jenny.  But Jenny doesn't consider herself a victim, and her only solution is to give Jared a taste of his own medicine...literally.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Bargain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round Six of the blindfold kink meme for the summary prompt, and originally intended as an exercise to get into Jenny’s head and lead into the next story in the series.

The first time it happened, she hadn't been sure whether to call the doctor or the police. Or both. Or neither. Sitting at the kitchen table the morning after, she'd stirred milk into her tea and gone over the night in her head. She'd stayed late last night to help Jared trim a hundred thousand dollars off a budget, they'd crunched numbers for three hours straight, and then...nothing. It was a little terrifying, and Jenny’s a placid sort of person, on the whole difficult to terrify.

There'd been a voicemail on her phone when she'd woken up, in Jared's voice. _Hey, I didn't think about your getting to work this morning when I sent you home last night – sorry about that. I'll pick you up this morning and you can drive your car home today._ She'd gotten no clues from his voice about the events of the night, assumed that whatever had happened had happened between work and home, and sent him a quick text in reply, _No, that's okay, I'll just grab another taxi, but thanks for the offer_ , and left it at that, but she'd been grateful to be spared the horror of not only waking up memoryless, but also in a nightmarish dude-where's-my-car state she hadn't experienced since the days she'd let Misha run her social life.

She’d considered asking him, of course she had, but she’s never been particularly comfortable opening up her personal life for public viewing, and most especially not for someone like Jared, someone she kind of...well. So she hadn’t said anything. She'd gotten herself checked out, a quick lunchtime appointment, but hadn't said anything to her doctor, and she hadn't called the police. In the end, she just hadn't known what to say, to anyone. And later, she had good reason not to’ve asked.

:::

"So," Misha says, eyeing the waiter appreciatively as he walks off with their menus. "How's the serial rapist?"

"Mish," says Jenny, warningly, and Misha rolls his eyes.

"Okay, fine, Patty Hearst. How's _Jared_? Any late nights lately?"

Jenny stares at the tasteful single-flower centerpiece. "One, a couple of weeks ago." She's half-defensive, half-defiant under Misha's narrow-eyed gaze. Having told him the worst, she refuses to back away from it.

"Jenny, seriously." 

Jenny holds up her hand. "No judging, remember?"

"I'm not judging--"

"I beg to differ. _Patty Hearst_. _Serial rapist_." The words leave a bad taste in her mouth, and she's pretty sure it shows, because Misha retrenches immediately, softens.

“Well, maybe I'm judging a little bit. But can you blame me?"

When she considers the situation objectively, she honestly can't, which is, she feels, definitive proof that she is in fact not crazy. Not completely crazy, anyway.

:::

It hadn't taken her long to figure it out; whatever else might or might not be wrong with her, she's not stupid. After the second blackout she’d been suspicious, and after the third she'd had the pattern down. Complete the task at hand, pass out from "exhaustion," wake the next morning in her own bed, achy and sticky inside and out, sometimes still in the clothes she'd worked in the day before (the more complicated the dress, the likelier it is to be hopelessly misfastened). 

And it's not as though she'd recognized the symptoms immediately, not as though she'd ever been roofied before, but the internet is an amazingly useful tool, and being unstupid, she'd managed to figure most of it out. She’s still not sure what he uses, but she’s got a list going, has narrowed it down to a few possibilities. 

She knows the basics, then, but not the details; she's never been exactly sure what goes on between them, those nights. She has vague impressions, mostly tactile, hands over her breasts and in her hair and spreading her open, mouth on her nipple or biting down on her shoulder, cock moving in her. He’s getting rougher, the longer it goes on, she knows that from the bruises, scratches, tooth marks, nights mapped out on her body in frustratingly nonlinear fashion. She’s got physical proof, so she knows that these vague impressions, they’re probably memories.

Sometimes she hears his voice, too, deep and unapologetic, echoing in her head. He says the filthiest things to her, tells her how to move, what he wants her to do, what he wants to do to her. She’s not so sure the voice is memory; it’s completely possible that her head is filling in some blanks for her, it’s completely possible her fantasies are taking over. She’ll masturbate in her apartment at night to the sound of his voice talking to her. Telling her to bend over, suck harder, take it.

:::

“You could try _talking_ to him,” Misha says impatiently. “I mean, aren’t you somewhat curious to know what the actual fuck is going on in his head?” 

“Well, sure. But what would I even say?”

“Uh, you could probably start with something like, ‘Hey, boss, I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to enjoy drugging me to the eyeballs and fucking me senseless. What gives?’” 

Jenny laughs a little, swirling her iced tea in her glass to hear the ice clink. “Yeah, I can imagine that conversation. God, I can’t even talk about the weather at work without getting flustered and tongue-tied.”

“True enough, I guess. And you don’t even have crushes on your other coworkers.”

“I don’t have a crush,” she says automatically. 

“If it’s not a crush, then what is it?”

Jenny shrugs and doesn’t reply. It’s a good question, an excellent and important question, and she can’t answer it. She doesn’t know exactly what she feels about Jared. Sure, he populates most of her fantasies, but they’re not exactly hearts-and-flowers fantasies. She knows what Jared is; at base -- an asshole and a criminal -- and anyone looking objectively at her would consider her his victim.

So. Not a crush so much as a catastrophe.

:::

She’d thought about setting up a camera. She’d thought about calling a coworker to come in on nights she worked late. She’d thought about a lot of things, to catch him out, to find out what the hell _happened_ on those nights. It wasn’t hard to think of ways it could happen, even without Misha contributing his own regular brainstorming sessions and encouragements.

If she’s honest, she’s not entirely sure Misha’ll be able to hold his tongue forever. Not that he hadn’t promised, and not that he’s not normally really good at keeping his own and anyone else’s private lives private. But Misha’s worried, and with amazingly good reason, even Jenny will admit that. She told Misha the worst, after all. 

The worst, though, isn’t what Jared Padalecki does to her. The worst is that Jenny really, really likes it.


End file.
